


the shame (of what a man can do)

by whiplash



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Harm to Children, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Pre-Canon, So much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 00:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7868182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mama,” he says in Spanish. “You look like a princess.”<br/>“If I'm a princess,” she answers, knowing her cue by heart, “then you're my strong, brave knight.“</p>
            </blockquote>





	the shame (of what a man can do)

The children all sleep together, curling up against each other in a tangle of nut-brown limbs. He wakes sometimes with a foot in his face or his mouth full of unwashed hair. Most of the time, though, they stir awake together at dawn. The air fills with voices – _move your elbow, Colette – who took my silk hair band? – stop that, Henrí, you beast!_ – and they giggle and grizzle until hunger drives them to leave their safe haven.

Outside, there's always chores waiting for them. The children feed the chickens and the pigs, scrub the floors and tables and carry in the water. They mend stockings and carry out chamberpots, scrub the vegetables and pick through the peas. If they're lucky they get sent on errands with copper coins pressed into their hands. If they're less lucky, well, then they get dragged into the kitchen by their ears to clean pots and pans. 

“When I grow up I'll be a fancy lady,” Pauline says, pushing a strand of dirty hair behind her ear. The rain pours down on them as they carry firewood back to the house. “I'll have a pretty dress, just like mother, and I'll have sticky bread buns with raisins for supper every day.” 

“You'd get a belly ache,” Aramis predicts, even as his own belly makes itself reminded. 

“Would not,” Pauline protests. “And I'd share, I would.” 

“You can keep your pretty dresses,” Marie mutters, spitting on the wet grass. She's wearing a pair of Aramis' old trousers, tied to her waist with a string. “Gimme a pair of boots, have them be about equal in size and not leak, and I'll be happy.” 

Then lightening lights up the sky and, their quibbling all but forgotten, they hurry inside. 

The first few hours of each day belongs to them and them alone. They scrounge for breakfast and eat together, sharing their food between them. The little ones grumble when there's not enough, fat tears rolling down their dirty cheeks. Aramis had been little once too. Had groused when hungry and grabbed greedily for bread that wasn't his. He knows better now, though. 

Has learned to care for the little ones; to untangle the knots in their hair, to kiss skinned knees better and whisper comfort in little ears when the men get mean and the mothers cry. He has his favorites – fierce Marie, sweet Pauline, little Jean – but, in truth, he cares for them all like sisters and brothers. But, of all things, he loves his mother the best. 

When she calls, Aramis comes running. She pulls him into his lap and works her bone comb through his wild curls, her hands gentle and soft and her voice as light and happy as the larks. Her dresses always carry the scent of flowers and when he finally squirms loose, it's just to burrow his face in the brightly colored fabric and inhale deeply. 

“Mama,” he says in Spanish. “You look like a princess.” 

“If I'm a princess,” she answers, knowing her cue by heart, “then you're my strong, brave knight.“ 

And Aramis would like nothing better. He crawls back up in her lap and she holds him, rocking him gently back and forth. In the circle of her arms, he feels light and happy, surrounded by the scent of summer and so certain in her love. 

“When I am a knight,” he says, “I will send the bad men away. We will buy fresh bread every day, enough for all the children, and there will be meat for supper always.” 

In response mother just holds him harder. 

One morning, in early spring when there's still frost on the ground, they find Marie behind the stables. Her skirts have been torn away and there's blood smeared across her legs and belly. Her eyes stare up at the gray morning sky, still as blue as cornflowers but all empty. 

Aramis goes to sit down next to her. Her hand's cold and her fingers stiff. Behind him, some of the little ones begin to cry. Someone, maybe Pauline, starts screaming. Aramis thinks about Marie, slapping at hands that tried to steal a touch and sticking her tongue out at the drunkards when they called after her. She'd been so strong and alive and now she all broken and still like a bird with its neck snapped. 

Soon after, a strange man claiming to be his father comes to take him away. 

Aramis screams for his mother, biting and clawing like a wild thing. The man doesn't let go though, just tightens his vice-like grip and shakes him like a naughty puppy. By the stable, the children have gathered. Pauline's holding Jean in her arms and he clings to her like he's afraid he's next in line to be torn away. 

“Mama! Mama!” 

“Hush boy,” his capturer orders, his voice gruff but not unkind. 

But Aramis doesn't listen, he just wants his mama. He stares at her with wet eyes and claws the air for her with his fingers. Remembers her always as he sees her at that moment, standing in the door, her shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders and her hair tumbling over her shoulders. 

She won't answer his cries and she won't meet his eyes, no matter how hard he shouts.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this. It's just sad, sad, sad. 
> 
> Title from a Toad the Wet Sprocket's "Hold Her Down".


End file.
